Present Over Perfect

thousand times in a row, screaming with glee every time.
Henry came running back. “Mom, it’s amazing! You
have to come with me!” And so while Aaron played with
Mac, my darling eight-year-old boy took me by the hand
and we swam out through the tunnels, fins propelling us
silently and smoothly. It was as absolutely extraordinary as
everyone had told us, deeply blue with bright coral and
schools of fish darting and circling us. All the while, Henry
held my hand and pointed things out to me, leading me
around the shallow coral heads, making sure I saw every
brightly colored fish and plant.
I knew, even while it was happening, that this was one
of those moments that a mother keeps with her forever, a
snapshot of impossible sweetness. I told myself to remember
absolutely every single thing about it, to stay in it and soak
up every second.
And at the very same time, I felt a dagger of such
aggressive hatred for myself that I couldn’t concentrate. I’ve
been snorkeling since I was a child, but I kept submerging
the snorkel, sucking in salty water, sputtering and gasping. I
kept shaking my head, trying to snap myself back into the
present, into the wonder, into the beauty, but I couldn’t. The
wave of deep darkness inside me was too powerful to beat
back, and while I fought to be there, fully there, I was swept
away by a searing-hot knife slice of self-hatred running
through me.
All I could think about was how deeply I hated myself. I
was holding my son’s hand as he led me through the water,